


Warlord

by rsharpe



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Emprisonment, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsharpe/pseuds/rsharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is about war. Most of the events will be from John Sheppard's perspective. It is not a pretty story, nor is it light reading. There are battles fought, large and small, both won and lost. Men and women meet violent and gruesome deaths. Some victims may be unarmed civilians, noncombatants or children. A lot of the characters will use language, slang and racial slurs that may make some people uncomfortable. These remarks and comments are not intended to shock, nor do they represent my personal opinions. People do not tend to be politically correct when fighting for their lives in a war zone. Some of these characters will not act or react as they did in canon. There are those who adopt a cavalier attitude toward death, their own and that of others. The characters in this story are facing what seems to be a hopeless situation as best they can, with courage and determination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Morality is contraband in war."  
\- Mahatma Gandhi  
\- 1869 - 1948

 

Captain Lyle "Dutch" Holland was dead. Their current little corner of hell had begun well over 24 hours ago when John had heard Dutch's hoarse voice, nearly unrecognizable from smoke and pain, calling into HQ over the designated ops channel for immediate exfil. Holland and Landers had been picking up two teams and Lyle's chopper had gone down under heavy fire. Since Landers was pushing his chopper's weight limit with several badly wounded men on board and had undetermined damage to his ship as well, he had no choice but to continue back to base. The sheer amount of gunfire and screams was almost overriding Holland's shouted words of desperation over the staticy com. He also confirmed that every soldier in his unit had taken fire and he was the only one still mobile.

It was taking way too long for the exfiltration orders to come down to their level from the higher-ups and John's disobedience that day would be armchair-quarterbacked for months by the lucky bastards who weren't there and hadn't had to make a decision in a matter of seconds. He'd landed his own helicopter just minutes before, finishing an uneventful border patrol. John heard the call on the com from the COs office as he was headed past the commander's door for the briefing room down the hall. He was still suited up and he didn't even hesitate before turning on his heel and running back down the corridors with his commander's orders to stand down thundering after him. John knew he had scant minutes to act before the SFs came running out to stop him.

In spite of disobeying a direct order, taking up a copter that hadn't been fully checked and refueled, shoving the shocked co-pilot out the door and onto the pavement to at least save his young ass, John knew there would be those who said it would all be for nothing. That Holland and all his men were as good as dead. But John had to try. He HAD to try again. God! This was just like Mitch and Dex in Khabour all over again. So he slammed his helmet on and rushed the Hawk through the pre-flight. taking her up way too quickly, crooning nonsense to his lady all the way. They might try to physically stop him on the flight line, but they'd never fire on him. He was lifting off before the first wave of SFs had even made it half way across the burning hot pavement, the afternoon mirage making them appear as a shimmering ghost company coming to drag him back into hell. Instead, he was voluntarily flying into it. As an afterthought, he killed his com. He didn't need the distraction.

John knew that The Brass would declare that there was too much risk for too little return, they'd say that was the reason the exfil orders weren't given. It was not the men's lives they were concerned with . . . it was money, pure and simple. Risk versus reward. Black figures on white paper, with a big, red minus sign denoting a negative return on the investment. If John went down hard, and there was a good chance he would from the abundance of firepower the enemy were using, that would be two multi-million dollar helicopters lost instead of one. At least it wouldn't be three. Landers' chopper had somehow come through the bombardment barely scored by the entrenched guns considering how bad it could have been. The wounded that Landers and his crew had picked up were already being sorted for transfer. Maybe some of them would even make it. John knew that there would be no orders for other choppers to follow him back in and cover the extraction. Hell, even if he made it back, with or without Holland or any of his crew, alive or dead, his ass was well and truly fucked.  


Oh, Holland had been alive when John got there. Barely. The only one still painfully gasping for breath. But before he'd collapsed behind what cover he could find in the bullet-riddled chopper, Holland had been just mobile enough to destroy all the sensitive parts of his bird, just as John had done at his own crash site before loping over the uneven sand and rocks to locate any survivors. Of course John made it there by being shot down himself which was just all kinds of awkward when about all he had on him was his standard sidearm and a spare clip or two. A lucky shot had hit his rotor and brought John's copter spiraling down close to the first crash site. It had been the best controlled landing with damage that John had ever done. He was actually pretty proud of that.

The long range enemy fire had stopped for now and both John and Holland assumed the insurgents were shutting down their heavy artillery and camouflaging it in preparation to get down the mountain to the crashed helicopters and look for survivors or intel, hopefully both. The area between where the heavy fire had been coming from and the sand and brush where the helicopters were now was rocky, nearly vertical terrain. The Taliban would be already en route but they had a little time.

Things got really interesting as John attempted to patch Holland up with his little-used field trauma training. Since he'd grabbed the large first aid kit just before he took off running, he at least had plenty of supplies to work with. All sizes of field bandages, pads, clotting powder, sutures and even a plastic splint for Dutch's probably broken leg. What he didn't have was a trained medic, air and ground support and time.

Thank God the larger kits included a hard plastic case with pre-loaded morphine and antibiotic syringes. The splint would help a little when they moved, since they had no other choice. He'd taken a chance and injected his patient with half a dose of morphine to numb the pain a little before he started working on the worst of Lyle's injuries. John knew he didn't dare risk a full dose but he had to have Holland's cooperation. The other reason he skimped on the morphine was that Lyle's breathing seemed a little impaired. He didn't think a half dose would hurt him as he was pulling in air, even if it was a little labored.

Dutch still had enough spirit left in spite of the intense pain he was in to rag on John about crashing his own chopper. John thought about telling him another had been dispatched but Dutch would figure out that no one else was coming when they'd have to start moving instead of staying near the choppers.

John's own crash hadn't been quite as soft as he'd implied to Lyle. As far as his own injuries, John could feel what he hoped were just bruised ribs as every time he moved they thrummed in pain. His left shoulder felt more or less as it were being roasted over a slow flame and he wasn't nearly as coordinated as he'd like to be. His awkward movements might have something to do with the pounding headache that likely meant a slight concussion and the trickle of blood that he kept wiping away from his left eye. When the trickle turned into a steady stream, he paused working on Holland long enough to slap a small pad over the raised knot and bleeding scratch, taping it haphazardly just to get it stopped. John wished he could just lie down somewhere soft and safe and indulge in a little morphine as well.

Knowing that the clock was ticking, John muscled Dutch up and, with both of them grunting and cursing, half carried and half dragged him through as much sand and scrub as they could cover before dark. John knew they were leaving a trail from the wreckage that a child could follow and he also knew that Holland wasn't going to make it unless a miracle happened and a friendly picked them up. Soon. John had briefly considered taking shelter in an old, badly rusted Russian chopper, but their tracks in the sand led straight to it and there wasn't enough of it left to be a defensible position.

There would be no more helicopters coming, no more rescue attempts. Holland had gotten wise to that too and when John realized that they had been staggering across the broken landscape for hours and that the man couldn't take much more movement he gently lowered him to the sand. John tried his best to reassure Lyle by saying that he was really tired too and that they'd just take a short break. After about twenty minutes, Holland quietly succumbed to hypovolemic shock from too many bullet wounds John had had neither the time, skills or supplies to treat. Just before Dutch's eyes closed for good, he grabbed John's sleeve, nodded and gave him a wavering salute. John saw everything on Lyle's painfully grateful face that he just couldn't get enough breath to say. "Thanks for coming back for me, Sheppard. I didn't want to die alone. But it was a damm fool thing to do."

The oddest thing about the whole clusterfuck was that John didn't even like Holland. Basically Dutch's loud bullshit bragging about all his unlikely female conquests and his bad jokes and clowning around got on John's nerves. He avoided him, his equally grating buddies and his antics, bypassing the cleared area at the front of the hanger that had been turned into a barracks where a few chairs and tables were set up as a makeshift dayroom. Enough packages got through that by this time they could be shared and there were decks of cards, board games, magazines and paperback books. Some of the packages had goodies like cookies cushioned with popcorn and even some bags of M & M's. On his arrival, John had immediately claimed an empty bunk in a back corner as his, stowed his duffel and, by sprawling on it and keeping a book or magazine with him to appear occupied, he usually succeeded in being left alone. Hell, he would have read a Harlequin novel if it got him an hour or two of peace and quiet.

Here and now, with the cold night coming on fast and only Holland's corpse keeping him company, John kept thinking he should be regretting coming back. He'd really done it this time. This stunt was going to earn him much more than an hour standing at attention and being chewed out by the Old Man. He did regret all the hell this was going to cause both him and his commander providing, of course, he made it back to base. But he didn't regret doing it, not one damm bit of it. He didn't think he would regret it even if he was captured.

It was fucking cold in the desert at night. But it was also beautiful. John finally laid back carefully, mindful of his sore ribs and even sorer shoulder and used his good arm to cushion his head so he could look at the stars. They were different stars than the ones he'd memorized as a small boy, but he took what comfort he could from them. He had the feeling that comfort was going to be hard to come by soon.


	2. Chapter 2

"You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war."  
\- Albert Einstein  
\- 1879 - 1955

John had done well during all four required courses of the USAF Survival School. Thinking back about how quickly he was snapped up and assigned to Black Ops for further training, he wondered if excelling during those courses might just have been a mistake. He was especially pleased and relieved when the last course which teaches Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape primarily to aircrew members was concluded. That course had concentrated on the principles, techniques and skills necessary to aircrew members to survive in any environment and finally to return home or back to the objective. Now it was over and he was still sporting a black eye, a sore jaw, a ragged cut on his forehead, scrapes on his arms and legs, and rope burns encircling his ankles and wrists. But he'd beat the time of the next trainee in line and he'd been a SEAL. 

He also had several bruises that were in very tender places so he figured he deserved a little fun. And if that fun involved collecting on a few bets, so much the better. On a day pass between the completion of the schools and his transport out for the additional mysterious training, he got a ride from the base to a restaurant one street over from the Sunset Strip Club in Moose Creek. It didn't take long for John to figure out why the bar was off limits to all military personnel from Fort Wainwright and Eielson Air Force Base. 

Thinking ahead, John had stuck civilian clothes in the bottom of his duffle, so that he wouldn't stand out as military immediately. He'd pulled on a pair of worn jeans, a long-sleeved thermal over a tee shirt and covered that with a North Face jacket. There was nothing he could do to disguise the boots, but it must have worked as none of the patrons even gave him a glance. Gathering his courage, he asked the big, mean-looking bartender with the shaved head and more tattoos than John could count if he could get a receipt for his beer with the name of the bar and the date and time stamped on it. The behemoth actually laughed at that and handed over a pre-printed receipt with all the information to John and told him he had brass ones. John's new friend kept the free beer coming and it got better and colder as the afternoon wore on. At one point his buddy pushed a plate across the bar with a sandwich and chips. John left an enormous tip. Hell, it wasn't like he'd need money where he was going. It was just getting dark outside when he realized he'd better go before his luck ran out. The next stage show looked promising and, as far as he could tell, some of the dancers were even women, but he'd won the bet and probably shouldn't stay any longer or he'd miss his ride. 

He'd also gotten an exceptional grade during his solitary six days in the mountains of Colville and Kaniksu Natuibak Forests. Hell, he'd enjoyed that. But what John had really excelled at was the SERE training back at Fairchild. He supposed he'd be using that knowledge real soon. John wondered briefly what the Taliban would grade on. 

If he did make it back, he wouldn't lie during his inevitable Article 15 hearing and say anything except given the same circumstances he'd do it again. He wouldn't regret it during the mandatory Cool School at Eielson he'd have to attend, no matter how far below zero the temperature dropped. After all he was still the property of the United States Air Force, and he figured that McMurdo was about the only place he could possibly end up. That was the farthest base he could be sent to, if he survived, so that would probably be his next assignment. He had too many medals and commendations for bravery to kick him out right after this, and McMurdo used a lot of chopper pilots. Maybe he was being arrogant, but he just couldn't imagine a court martial being convened over a failed rescue attempt, even against orders.

As it turned out, he was right. He still didn't regret anything during the proceedings and all the lectures and warnings and being told for the thousandth time that he had it in him to be an excellent officer if he'd just get rid of his independent streak and his know-it-all-attitude. He didn't know who to thank that it really had turned out to be an Article 15 and not a court martial. John couldn't tell if his family connections had anything to do with it, but he was grateful all the same to whoever had pulled the strings. Then, finally, all was said and done and he was in the back of a transport headed to Christchurch and from there to Antarctica to fly choppers transporting military and civilians back and forth to what was supposed to be a secret installation. The Brass thought McMurdo would be the end of his career, not the beginning of a new one.


	3. Chapter 3

"The art of war is simple enough. Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can and keep moving on."  
\- Ulysses S. Grant  
\- 1822 - 1885

Colonel Marshall Edwin Sumner was dead. Actually, he was as good as dead before John’s bullet had penetrated his heart. The wraith who was draining him had almost finished, but John had seen the request in the rheumy, aged eyes. Colonel Sumner had wanted an honorable death. A clean death. A Marine's death. John had given it to him. In return, the responsibility of that death was his to carry. It was not the only death that John held himself accountable for. Not the only death that he sometimes dreamed about, waking up tangled in sweaty sheets, nightmares pulling him from half-remembered battles or ops carried out in remote forests, jungles, deserts and more recently in endless, winding corridors that seemed almost living and breathing beneath the sticky coating of the walls. 

Colonel Sumner certainly hadn't liked John. It was fair to say that he fucking hated him. John's superior little smirks in Sumner's direction probably didn't help, but John had always reacted the same way to authority and especially when the representative of said authority was holier than thou and hated his guts for no reason. Well, no reason except that he wasn't a Marine. During the weeks they were stationed at the Mountain for the main prepatory stage of the mission, John knew that Sumner had tried every trick in the book and some that weren't to get him transferred from the SGC and returned to his old unit at McMurdo. But since he'd disobeyed General O'Neill's orders not to touch anything, and sat down in the Ancient control chair he'd discovered that he had inherited something called the ATA gene in spades and was apparently desperately needed in Atlantis. On a highly probable one-way trip. To another galaxy. So, a little disrespect to a Marine Colonel was really not even on the long list of Things John Sheppard Shouldn't Have Done.

Dr. Elizabeth Weir was not only in his corner, but so was General O'Neill. She had blocked Sumner's every move as though playing a chess game that she knew she'd win long before the pieces were even set on the board. John hadn't liked Sumner either. Sumner was a hard core Marine who thought that anyone in the Air Force was a pampered momma's boy who'd never make it in the real armed services. He was a hard-ass, by the book, old-timer. Sumner had taken one long, assessing look at John and decided that he was nothing but a pretty flyboy who was probably doing Weir. When they were forced to be in meetings together, Sumner simply ignored him. He surmised that Sumner would have probably asked him to get him coffee and doughnuts if he thought he could get away with it, but with General O'Neill there he had to play nice. He saw the repressed laughter in General O'Neill's eyes and realized that the general knew exactly what Sumner was thinking. John mentally moved O'Neill up in his estimation. Besides, he got to drink the good coffee in the conference room. 

John sometimes wondered what Sumner would think of Sheppard being the de facto Military Commander after John had shot him. And after that inauspicious beginning, John had held Atlantis together literally with his own and every other Atlantis team member's blood, sweat and tears until Earth was able to reestablish contact. Or even what Sumner would think of the body count he almost single handedly racked up during the attempted Genii takeover of the City when he'd been forced back into that deep, dark place that he'd been taught how to find within himself. But Sumner hadn't been there to judge him, that wasn't how it had gone down and all John could hope for was the interrogation by the Keeper had not gotten any information from Sumner and the Wraith were still unaware of Earth. And even more importantly, how to get there.


	4. Chapter 4

"When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die."  
\- Jean Paul Sarte  
\- 1905 - 1980

When he was on his way to rejoin his unit in Afghanistan, John heard some of the more experienced soldiers tell the newbies that no one ever forgot the first time they had to kill an enemy in battle. He’d thought that they meant killing an enemy face to face. Later, he found out that wasn't what they meant at all. The older soldiers were wrong. They were talking about long distance, impersonal kills from the relative safety of a chopper or with a rifle behind a barricade, or even tossing a grenade into someone else's fortified position. He wisely kept his mouth shut during the long trip and longer layovers. His orders to rejoin his old unit turned out to be the typical hurry up and wait variety. Maybe because he was an Air Force Officer and a pilot catching rides on Army transports or maybe the military was just dicking around, but he ended up on three different planes stopping at Kabul, Taiji and Kandahar before finally arriving at Bagram Airfield. Riding in the back of a transport was noisy, dirty and the canvas sling chairs were a miserable way to travel. He'd been tired when the trip started, and as he progressed from plane to plane he retreated into his thoughts rather than join in on the advice to the new soldiers. He snorted softly to himself, thinking he was the last person to give anyone advice. 

During his rotation in Special Ops, John had done more than enough killing in places that were just as hot and dangerous as Afghanistan but a lot greener and wetter. Huge trees delineating the landscape instead of large rocks. Thick, twisting vines and solid walls of greenery instead of small patches of an ever present spindly bush that he'd never seen a single flower on but were covered in three inch thorns all the same. There was just something very real and personal about slipping through the almost impenetrable jungle or forest growth behind an enemy patrolling a perimeter and either slitting his throat or breaking his neck to maintain silence during the op. Those men would be hard to forget. On the occasions when he had too much to drink of the barely aged liquor from the village and too little to eat, John wondered if the most valuable lesson he'd learned from those kills was how to puke quietly after the first time and not step in it afterwards. 

John's first combat kills in Afghanistan occurred when he was flying one of three Apache gunships in a wedge formation. He’d never even seen the "enemy's" faces. He’d never had to. His imagination conjured them up for him. All of them: men, women, children, even their Goddamm mangy, half-wild dogs and the ever present sheep and goats. He would remember these people in a completely different way. 

The copters descended on the two remote villages which supposedly contained either Taliban or their supporters. Their formation came in low, just barely clearing the mountains to appear suddenly above the huts grouped together close to the hillside, the sound not reaching the villagers til they were on top of them. From the thin wreaths of smoke they could see on their approach, it must have been dinnertime. A lot of these people used crude hive shaped clay ovens because it was easier to get the wood for one large fire and keep it going long enough to cook what meager food they had. The villagers John had seen up close were poverty stricken. War of one kind or another had ravaged their land for centuries leaving little arable soil to farm or for their pitiful livestock to forage. Homeless people in the US had it better than they did. Someone made a crack over the mic that at least the Hajjis would all be in one place, using the communal oven, waiting to carry their food home. The villagers didn’t know that fiery death was about to rain out of the sky and they’d never have to worry about dinner or anything else ever again. The distance and cold-blooded manner of these deaths bothered John more than the wet work. 

These particular villages would be blown from the face of the earth because “intel from multiple sources that have previously proven reliable and correct" reported that they were Taliban supporters or suppliers or hid the Taliban between raids. John knew how reliable the intel usually was. Out of date or delivered because someone from one village had a blood feud with another village or someone “thought” they’d seen Taliban or their supporters smuggling food or weapons through the mountain passes.

It didn’t help his conscience that he was so damm good at what he did. John had been brought up in a strict Roman Catholic household and even though it had been years since he'd even been to Mass, much less Confession, he still wondered "why" he was so good at killing. If he hadn't learned the hard way to be a very private person, he might have gone to a Priest at one of his postings and tried to reconcile what that ability said about him. Being good at flying, he could understand. Sometimes when he was in the air he was actually "saving" lives, picking up his men and cas-evacing the wounded. It helped to think about that.

Then there were the other things he'd learned he was good at. During his rotation on the Black Ops assignments when he was in the jungle, he'd learned to move as silently and unseen as the native guides. There were no regular supply trucks coming this close to the border. Out of necessity, John had gotten proficient at finding the crates that were dropped for them overnight about once a month. The parachutes came in handy for reinforcing ceilings and walls against the almost constant drizzle. They broke up the wooden crates, using them for reinforcing the bunks or patching holes in the roof. The MREs were a welcome change from the rations they were able to scrape by on out here between drops. Most of it was pretty bad, only supplemented by whatever the villagers were able to spare and a few things they were able to steal on their raids. Coffee and chocolate were luxury items, but they were more likely to find bread and maybe rice if they were lucky and had the time to look. 

The guides had tasted the instant American coffee from the MREs and had been appalled. Soon after that, small burlap sacks of rich smelling coffee beans arrived with an ancient tin grinder and a beaten up coffeepot. Luckily, the coffeepot was the perfect size to sit on the small alcohol stove they used for heating what little food they had. Smoke from any other type of fire would have given their position away immediately. The grinder had to be taken apart with each use and the blades sharpened, but it was worth the trouble. They usually had some white American sugar or powdered yacon root from the village, but the coffee was excellent just taken black. 

This temporary HQ (the military version of "temporary" which meant this team had occupied the general area for about 14 months, moving around periodically) consisted of a camouflaged shack set between two huge trees. They wrapped their rickety bunks totally in mosquito netting before trying to sleep. John wanted the netting over and around him while he slept not because of the mosquitoes, but because of the other creatures that lived under the litter on the forest floor. John definitely wouldn't miss the bugs. Especially the roaches and centipedes which were the largest he'd ever seen. 

After almost a year of these missions, he'd been unexpectedly transferred out of the Special Ops Program that as far as he knew didn't even exist on paper. His orders stated that he was being reassigned to his old unit, now in Afghanistan. He'd been handed the paperwork right after another successful foray against the drug and gun runners. John just stood there for a minute or two trying to get his head around the fact that he was being transferred. He was soaked in sweat, dirty, wet from the constant rain, completely exhausted and still had the blood of at least three men on him beside his own. He thought he'd actually miss this place. It took weeks to travel through the jungle and back to what passed for civilization. John was glad he had that time to attempt to rejoin civilization a little himself. 

After a week in Afghanistan he'd traded his distaste for the humidity and the creepy crawlers for the unremitting dry heat and the fine sand that blew constantly and got everywhere. Everywhere. And the coffee here sucked. In desperation, he switched to tea, which never failed to amuse the Marines. At least he drank it black from a styrofoam cup with the tag hanging over one side. There were the expected remarks and sniggers about pilots and their cappuccinos, but it was all in fun. If he thought the package would get here undamaged, he'd write someone he'd been stationed with Stateside and have a china cup and saucer sent. He was sure that would crack them the hell up. 

The Jarheads were by no one's standards stupid and they all seemed to appreciate John's wry, sarcastic answers to some of the more idiotic questions he'd been asked while he waited for the tea in his sippy cup to cool. Everybody at his table belly laughed when Ramirez misquoted Paul Rodriguez that "War was Gods way of teaching Marines geography." But no matter how friendly and open John seemed, the marines learned quickly that he'd go distant and silent when someone asked "Sir, where were you stationed before you ended up here?" That question was met with the blank look that screamed "Top Secret". Unsurprisingly, his reputation among the Marines began to soar.


	5. Chapter 5

"What a country calls it's vital interests are not things that help its people live, but things that help it make war. Petroleum is a more likely cause of international conflict than wheat."  
\- Simone Weil  
\- 1909 - 1943

Early one morning not long after he'd arrived and having failed to fall into anything resembling sleep, or even just much-needed rest, John got up and dressed at 0-dark-thirty, grabbed a bottle of water and wandered aimlessly around the camp. He'd checked the assignment sheets on the bulletin board and his name wasn't listed yet. So, other than mandatory meetings for all personnel, he apparently had no responsibilities for the day. Hearing the hushed voices and rustling papers, he realized that he'd ended up sitting on an upturned crate in the rear of one of the Marine's briefing tents. He knew he should move out of earshot but decided to stay regardless of the consequences if he was observed. Admitting to curiosity about the differing approach the ranking Marines would take concerning their situation to that of his own CO, he settled down to eavesdrop shamelessly.

Normal platoon business was taken care of, questions were answered and orders were given with more than a passing similarity to what he knew he'd hear later at his own briefing. Then, to his surprise, he heard the deep, unmistakable voice of Col. "Hard Head" Hughes take over the meeting from his XO and announce he was going to close the briefing with a prayer by Mark Twain. The shifting of the Marines who were about to stand to be dismissed stilled, and Col. Hughes began to recite, apparently from memory, his voice invoking authority, horror and goose bumps in equal portions.

"Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle, be Thou near them! With them, in spirit, we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.

O Lord, Our God, help us tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of the patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of their guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it.

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet.

We ask it, in the spirit of Love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen."

Right after Col. Hughes ended the prayer every Marine in the tent intoned a heartfelt "Amen". After an appropriate moment of transition from solemnity to Marine enthusiasm, a triumphant "Oorah!" echoed across the expanse of desert, tents, barracks and aircraft hangars. The whole base wondered what the hell the Jarheads were up to now. John figured they were better off not knowing. Wisely, he wandered away before the meeting could completely break up and the Marines began heading out to their various duty stations. John was pretty sure that Hughes realized that when Mark Twain wrote that prayer, he did it in the spirit of pure sarcasm. What worried him was that that the rest of the Marines would probably take both Hughes and Mark Twain quite literally.


	6. Chapter 6

"History is an account, mostly false, of events, mostly unimportant, which are brought about by soldiers, mostly knaves and by rulers, who are all fools."  
\- Ambrose Bierce  
\- 1842 - 1914 

As the FNG, John expected his fair share of harassment and tall tales of the dangers of the desert, officer or not. It was a tradition handed down forever and he really didn't mind since he'd come from the land of the OMFG BUGS! so when he was first told about the camel spiders, he pretended to take the advice quite seriously. He didn't really believe there were spiders in the desert that big. What the hell would they eat? However, just as he was entering the barracks for the night one of the spiders chose that moment to exit said barracks. Luckily, his first impulse to clamp his hand over his mouth cancelled out his second impulse, which was to scream like a fucking girl. John decided that particular piece of legend about the size and speed of the spiders just might be real. 

Once John saw one of the camel spiders for himself, he became irritatingly careful of the area where he slept, shaking out and inspecting the bedding. His boots were treated to the same thorough shaking as was any clothing which had been folded and stored out of the way. He listened to every horror story about the spiders to gain knowledge of where they were most likely to be found so he could avoid those spots. Finally, however, a worried Sergeant took John aside and told him the truth about the pests. In spite of their size and horrible appearance plus their speed when disturbed they were, in fact non-venomous. Just to be extra reassuring to the young Major, the older Sergeant cheerfully informed him that he had a much better chance of being stung by a scorpion than being bitten by a camel spider. After that, John had yet another creepy crawler to worry about.

Aside from the lack of good coffee, the abundance of fine, irritating sand, the camel spiders and the scorpions, he wasn't necessarily unhappy here. He was on the rotation to fly as often as he could be allowed and he could fly anything they put him in. Fly like it was second nature to him. Any kind of helicopter, it didn’t matter. He had the magic touch. John didn’t say much over his mic when he was on a mission. After the pre-flight and whatever else was necessary if he had soldiers to drop off, he retreated into silence. He was listening, but not to the meaningless chatter and posturing of the nervous men in the back and only peripherally to HQ. He listened to the chopper, to the feedback he got from whatever machine he was in. It was almost as though he was plugged into it somehow. He knew automatically when something wasn’t right, when an instrument wasn’t reading true, when the rotors were spinning just a hair slower than they should be. He listened and he paid attention. That was his advantage over other pilots who were just as skilled and had more air time than he did. He trusted his helicopters and the information they gave him. 

John never talked about the connection to the choppers except to his maintenance crew. They were the only ones who understood and respected him for the information he passed on. If he talked about it to anyone else he figured it would earn him a few trips to the psychiatrist and weeks of downtime. The crew in charge of keeping the helicopters airborne knew he was almost always right when they checked on whatever problem John had mentioned. As far as John was concerned, these crews had the most important jobs on the base. So he just kept his mouth shut in front of anyone else about it. He was really good at that, too. Plus, at his embarrassed request, before every one of his flights his choppers were inspected and cleared of every conceivable place that a camel spider or scorpion would even consider hiding. 

He certainly wouldn't discuss anything actually important with the guys in his unit. They did all the things that soldiers everywhere did to stave off the boredom until the shit hit the fan and there was no more boredom. They played cards, usually with the decks that pictured the Taliban's most wanted. Now that they had acquired some hand-held video games they passed them around when they could get batteries. Someone even scrounged up the occasional laptop they could use for a while. The laptop was good for Freecell or Spider Solitaire. Minesweeper was just a little too real. Sometimes they watched DVDs they’d seen a hundred times. A few of the men who had gone home sent some Classic Football DVDs which was enough to lift everyone's spirits for a solid week. Sports magazines were, strangely enough, in much higher demand than porn. They drank all the water the medics pushed on them, aware of the dangers of dehydration. A couple of the guys would have sneaked alcohol, but alcohol in this country was impossible to get. It wouldn’t have helped anyway. It never did. As well as pushing water, the docs pushed pills. All you had to say was that you couldn’t sleep or that you did sleep but the nightmares woke you up and you'd leave the Med Tent with a few blister packs of Ambien and Xanax if you didn't have a mission the next day. The Docs didn't even bother with adding anything to the charts, the group of pilots was so small they'd know if anyone was overdoing it.


	7. Chapter 7

" The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy."  
\- Friedich Nietzsche  
\- 1844 - 1900

John finally got so bored he even tried to learn a bit of the local language during mandatory down time until he figured out that no one was willing to teach him. The few local men allowed on base he approached with caution and asked about learning to speak at least a couple of common phrases but they obviously didn’t trust him. He wouldn’t have trusted him either. 

Eventually an elderly Afghani sauntered up to him where he was sitting in what passed for shade downing part of his daily required amount of water. John had seen the older man before, talking to one of the intel guys. So he must have permission to be on the base. The villainous old man, who resembled an extra out of an Indiana Jones movie, spoke passable English. The first thing he asked John was if he wanted to learn Pashto in order to spy or to seduce a woman. Appalled, John denied either and said he just figured that learning a new language might be useful. Introductions were made and he and Samir worked out a complicated barter system that involved an hour or two of language instruction from Samir in exchange for a supply of Samir's favorite parts of MREs, usually the wrapped cakes, and the highly prized M & Ms and packs of cinnamon or mint chewing gum from John.

Samir never praised him on his progress. If John got something right, he just grunted in acknowledgement or nodded his approval. If he messed up really badly, Samir would smack him on his thigh, arm or the meaty part of his shoulder with what John assumed was a camel stick though he never saw Samir with a camel. The unorthodox method of teaching had it’s benefits. After a few weeks, the old bruises began to fade and there were very few fresh ones. The tiny bit of praise Samir offered John once, if it could be called praise, was shortly after a lesson that had gone extremely well on John's part or at least Samir hadn't resorted to the "stick of doom". He told John that he had a gift, not seen often in many white Christian men, and it was not just a gift for learning a new language. John didn't understand and Samir refused to explain himself, just abruptly ended the lesson for the day and left John to wonder what he'd meant. Samir never mentioned it again and John didn't ask but he thought about what it might mean often at night when he couldn't sleep. 

After a little over three months of their daily lessons, interrupted only by John's flights and other duties, Samir pronounced him as ready in the basics as he was ever going to be without holding real conversations daily, told him to practice if he got the chance, solemnly shook his hand and strolled out of camp with his packs of gum, pound cakes and M & Ms secreted in the voluminous pockets of his robes. John always looked for him after that last lesson, but he never saw him on base again.


	8. Chapter 8

"A conventional army loses if it does not win. The guerrilla army wins if it does not lose."  
\- Henry Kissinger  
\- 1923 -

It was almost exactly a month after that final lesson with Samir that John stood an informal watch beside Holland's body through the long, cold night wondering if he'd die from exposure or thirst before he was captured. He knew approximately how far he was behind the lines and that the Taliban and their supporters would be all over the wrecked choppers like stink on shit looking for anything of value as well as survivors. 

He didn't have to wait long after the first rays of dawn appeared to lighten up the area. Five enemy soldiers abruptly stood up from a few yards away. John had been hungry, thirsty and exhausted by the adrenaline rush of what he'd hoped would be a rescue and then the crash of both his helicopter and his spirits when Holland died. He'd been so inwardly focused on what he should do next that he never knew they were there. He realized afterward that they'd simply stopped short of coming in closer to capture the Americans whose trail they'd followed and wrapped themselves in their robes, keeping watch. They must have been waiting for enough light so they could see how well armed the American soldiers were.

There was, of course, no point in even pretending to put up a fight. They all had AK-47s, but some of the handguns were also Russian, old Tokarevs mixed in with captured 9 mils, all aimed at him. In spite of the desert backdrop this wasn't a western and even though John was an excellent shot with his Beretta, he was most sincerely not a gunslinger. John was disarmed casually and patted down for the extra clips. They took his bolt knife from his belt and John realized that this was not their first rodeo as they gestured for him to hand over the smaller hold-out knife in his right boot. After a little muttering, which John couldn't make out, they even gave him water. The water came out of a skin bag that was warm and tasted like whatever had originally been wearing the skin. It was delicious. 

Two of them checked Holland's body, making sure he was dead before taking a few things from his pockets they thought might be useful. John had already secured Holland's dog tags and arranged his body carefully as a gesture of respect if not friendship. He resented the rough handling of Lyle's corpse and attempted to intervene. As a result, he was promptly thrown down in the sand and had his ribs re-tenderized. After they got that out of their systems John remembered that it would have hurt way more if the men doing the kicking had been wearing boots instead of sandals. 

As John turned over to regain his breath, two of the soldiers finished their search of Holland's uniform pockets then they hauled John back up and tied his hands together with a leather strip in front so he could keep his balance and marched him off to an unknown fate. John only tried to turn around once for a last look but he was yelled at and shoved roughly forward. He didn't try to turn around again.


	9. Chapter 9

"Neither enemy faces, nor the mothers that love them come to mind when one is thinking of nothing but endeavoring to survive. Philosophizing about war is useless under fire."  
\- Linda Bordell  
\- 1972 -

John's captors were very young. Under the robes, dirt, grime and bravado he guessed their ages were late teens. They didn't seem interested in abusing him anymore now that he'd calmed down. One of them gave him a few half-hearted shoves when they thought he wasn't going fast enough. At a signal from the one who was apparently in charge, they even stopped every so often to give him water and let him sit for a while. 

It was during one of these brief rest stops that John noticed one of the boys kept disappearing periodically and returning with several branches of the dry shrubs that sprouted everywhere. The branches were tied together and weighted with rocks, all of it secured with rough twine and dragged in a random pattern behind them. They appeared to know exactly where they were going, which could be both good and bad. Good if it was just a small way station with only a few others, bad if it was a main operation base that was well manned and supplied. Wherever they were headed, they obviously didn't want to be followed from where they had left Dutch. Hell, they could have been erasing his and Dutch's tracks since they'd picked up their trail. The question was why.

After they had trudged along for about two hours, John thought he could see large rocks ahead. At about the same time he noticed that the sand had all but given way to hard ground and the amount of scrubby plants had increased, some of them even seemed to be thriving. Then he finally noticed that the land had begun to take a definite slope upwards. The large rocks were either the beginnings of a small mountain or the edge of a larger one. The makeshift rocks and branches that had been used to obscure their tracks were untied and scattered and John noticed that the pieces of twine were carefully rolled up and tucked away in a pocket.

They followed a twisting, turning path through the rocks and John wasn't surprised to find that their destination was a cave. Actually, a series of small caves almost like the rooms in a house. Hopefully, there were no giant boulders to roll down on them when they accidentally triggered a trap. Meeting Samir wasn't the only reference he found that almost made him believe it really was a movie. His ribs, shoulder and head, however, continued to persuade him that this was all too real. He was almost glad that they seemed to be coming to a stopping point of some kind. If nothing else, maybe they'd allow him to sit or lie down and maybe the pain would ease off a little. 

The boys (John couldn't think of them as soldiers, though he knew they were) pushed him to the back wall of one of the smaller caves. There was a wooden cot with a thin mattress, a pillow and a couple of blankets. He was motioned to sit down on the cot while his hands were freed and one of the boys knelt down and pulled a rusty chain with an opened ring from where it had been hidden against the wall. John flinched in alarm and tried to stand until he was waved back down by another boy holding his gun. The first boy affixed the open ring around the boot on his left ankle, snapped it closed and then secured it with a lock and key. The other boys came back carrying a bucket which they placed in a corner and another skin bag which presumably held water. The water bag and a tin plate with a little dried meat and some naan were handed to him. Then they all retreated to another area, presumably to eat and rest as well. 

Naturally, the first thing he did was examine the chain. It was rusty but sturdy and had been driven into the rock wall with a huge spike. That was a no go, then. The ring that was just tight enough to keep him from slipping his boot off appeared newer and the lock was definitely new. He tested the length of the chain and it allowed him to move anywhere within the small area but nowhere near the entrance. 

Sighing, he resigned himself to being there for some time. He assumed the boys answered to someone older with authority. Maybe they'd just want to trade him. Or . . . no, he wouldn't go down that road just yet. He forced down the food and had a long drink of the goat flavored water. He also made use of the bucket and hoped it was changed somewhat regularly. Then he arranged himself as comfortably as he could on the cot with his ribs still tender, his shoulder on fire and the headache worse if anything, pulled the blankets over him and as the remainder of the adrenaline leaked out of his system, he finally slipped into an uneasy sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

"War is nothing more than the continuation of politics by other means."  
\- Karl Von Clausewitz  
\- 1780 - 1831

Patrick Ryan Sheppard was dead. The obituaries were prominently featured in all the right papers and were lengthy with the accomplishments of a man of his stature in the business community. His many political connections weren't mentioned, of course, but all the real players gave a sigh at his passing which meant the loss of any more of Sheppard Industries money for their war chests. The "survived by" section was easy to miss among all the accolades and detailed arrangements. Someone at the SGC, John never found out who, had bought a copy of the New York Times and left it for him in his temporary quarters. Everyone had really bent over backwards to be kind and understanding and John couldn't wait to get away from them before he punched a hole in the wall. Well, except for Ronon. If John didn't want to talk, then Ronon would be supportive in silence.

It was late after finding both him and Ronon something to wear to the wake. John didn't expect to know so many of the people there so he pointed Ronon to the free food after their brief conversation with Dave and walked unsteadily into the receiving room where his dad's coffin was. There were tons of flowers scattered over the whole house, not just in this room. He stood there quietly for a while, caught up in all the words said between them that nothing now could change. He wondered if maybe they'd both tried a little harder than it would have been different somehow. Although John still knew that he wouldn't have gone into Sheppard Industries and that his father would never have been satisfied with anything less than having both his sons with him in the family business. From the time he'd turned 14 and his father had realized that John was deadly serious about joining the Air Force and flying, the house had turned into a Cold War battlefield. Nothing had ever been the same between them. Even Dave had appeared to side with their father. And of course, by then, his mother had been dead.

Eventually, he wandered out to find Ronon near one of the pastures watching the horses as they ran and snorted, disturbed by all the people, none of whom were paying any attention to them. Just as John thought he might be able to get through this, he saw Nancy approaching. He filled Ronon in as quickly as possible and, after Ronon was introduced, he wandered over near the pasture. John was glad that Ronon always seemed to know when to melt away into the background.

Nancy hugged John and expressed her sympathy as they spoke. She mercifully kept it brief and went back towards the scattered crowd. He shouldn't have been so surprised to see her there. She and his dad had always gotten along. He and Nancy should never have gotten married. They made much better friends and lovers than husband and wife and both of them had gone into their union expecting very different things. John watched her walk away with a lot of the same regrets he'd harbored ever since she'd told him she just couldn't stay married to a man who was seldom there and, when he was, he was just waiting for the next mission . . . the next chance to risk his life. Since Ronon had finished eating, John took him inside to the bar, hoping to numb the emotions that had risen much too close to the surface, and that was when everything went to hell.

After the debacle with Ava Dixon and the rogue replicator was concluded, John hesitated to return to Atlantis with Ronon. He had unfinished business. It was too late to resolve anything with his father, but there might still be time to reconnect with Dave. Ronon went back to Atlantis alone, John went to see Dave and try to bridge the years of silence.

It was awkward for both of them. More than just years lay between the men, there were many misunderstandings and uncertainties that had been left to fester but when John went back to Atlantis it was with a sincere invitation to return when (and an unspoken "if") he could. It was far more than John could have ever hoped for.


	11. Chapter 11

"Three hundred years ago a prisoner condemned to the Tower of London carved on the wall of his cell this sentiment to keep up his spirits during his long imprisonment: 'It is not adversity that kills, but the impatience with which we bear adversity.' "  
\- Father James Keller, M.M  
\- 1900 - 1977

 

John woke to what he assumed, just for a moment, was the absolute worst hangover he'd ever had. A hangover complicated by being in a bar fight. Or having a hangover after losing a bar fight and then being run over by a truck. Unfortunately his memory came crashing back and in the few unguarded moments the intense emotions of losing Dutch and the others, being captured and not knowing what the hell was going to happen next, he lost it. Throwing the blankets back, he rushed to the wall and began frantically pulling at the spike that held the chain, then at the metal ring and lock around his boot. He kicked the bunk until it overturned and tore at the blankets. Finally, his exhaustion and injuries began to slow him down and he collapsed breathing heavily and exhausted onto the cold stone of the floor.

The noise of John's freak out brought two of the boys back into the cell, looking alarmed. They spoke to each other for a while and then tried out two words of English, "Wait" and "Soon". John was not particularly assured. They could mean anything from reinforcements coming to torture and humiliate him on video to trading him back to the Air Force. Warily keeping an eye on John, they righted the bunk, folded the blankets and replaced the pillow, none of which had come to any harm from John's outburst. Another of the boys brought a refilled goatskin and another plate of the meat and naan, plus a small bowl of what looked and smelled like stew. Probably goat but maybe it was lamb. It didn't matter either way, John had to eat and drink or he'd just get weaker from his injuries which he had seriously aggravated with the useless display of temper.

They left him alone for a while after that and he managed to eat everything they'd brought and drink a lot of the water. The stew had indeed tasted like lamb and he even drank the juices at the bottom of the bowl. He sat back on the bunk, leaning against the wall, and tried to find a comfortable position, but his ribs, shoulder and head ached and burned unrelentingly. He tried to turn off the myriad thoughts of what was going to happen to him, but that was an exercise in futility.

After another hour or so, a new guard appeared. He was older than the others and had an air of authority the younger boys lacked. He was also able to speak a little more English. He'd brought a basket with him which contained what appeared to be bundles of cloth, a bottle of alcohol and a few other things John couldn't identify. The new boy motioned to John's head and side and inquired "Hurt"? John nodded yes, figuring that it was pretty damm obvious he'd been banged up in the crash. The young man motioned to himself and said "Ahmad" and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at John. Well, he seemed pretty young to be an interrogator and John's full name and rank were on his dog tags, so John went with it and gestured to himself and gave Ahmad his name.

Ahmad set the basket down beside John so that he could see the contents and motioned to John's head. John nodded and allowed the pad to be peeled off. It released its grip reluctantly and Ahmad soaked another cloth in a little water and moistened it until he could pull it off and discard it in a smaller basket that John hadn't noticed. Working quickly and efficiently, Ahmad cleaned the wound and applied what John recognized was a military bandage on the cut after he'd liberally doused it in alcohol which caused John to curse. Ahmad bowed a little as if to say he was sorry. Then he motioned again, this time he pointed to John's ribs. After a little back and forth as if they were playing charades, John got the message. Ahmad wanted him to take his flight suit down. This was accomplished with a lot of pain and some assistance from his erstwhile medic, especially when the tee shirt had to come off as well.

Stripped to the waist, John looked down at himself for the first time since the crash and wondered how the hell he'd been able to drag Lyle as far as he had. His chest and ribs were covered with massive darkening bruises and a few deep scratches. His shoulder was also badly bruised and appeared to have swollen during the night. Ahmad's eyes went wide when he saw the damage and he quickly dug into his basket and brought out something greenish gray and roughly the size and shape of an egg, along with a strange, curved knife. John slid away a little on the bunk when he saw the knife but Ahmad made reassuring motions and mimed for John to wait.

What followed made John feel as though he really had traveled back in time. In a process that had gone on unchanged for centuries, Ahmad took the odd looking object and made several parallel cuts in it with the curved blade. Immediately, a thick, milky substance like tree sap oozed out of the cuts. Ahmad exchanged the curved knife for another instrument with a straight blade and scraped the sap onto a large leaf he extracted from the basket. When he had a sufficient amount on the leaf, he began to roll it expertly between his fingers and the leaf until it darkened and resembled nothing more than a large brownish black marble. This, he offered to John. 

Opium, John's brain supplied. Ahmad wanted him to chew the opium to deaden his pain before he tried to wrap his ribs. He shook his head and said "No, I can't", but Ahmad bypassed his shielding arms and poked his side exactly where the bruising was the worst. John doubled over from the sudden red hot stab of pain and tears leaked out of his eyes as he gasped. Straightening up very slowly, he began to see the wisdom of taking the damm stuff. Hell, he wasn't going to be anywhere near a hospital or even a medic for God knew how long. He took the ball of opium from Ahmad and began to chew on it. The taste was pretty bad, reminiscent of what he imagined tar would be like, but after a few minutes he began to feel the pain fade, first the pounding headache then the throb from his shoulder and the burn from his ribs. Ahmad simply waited patiently until he nodded that he was ready.

The dreaded bottle of alcohol made a reappearance and the scratches were cleaned almost more thoroughly than John could sit still for. Then, using some of the cloth which he tore into long strips, Ahmad wrapped his ribs firmly but not so tightly that he couldn't breathe easily. He helped John replace the tee shirt. Finally, he used a larger piece of the same cloth folded into a triangle to make a sling for John's shoulder that would immobilize it to the extent that he wouldn't jar it unnecessarily. Ahmad used mimicry again verbally enforced by what John assumed was a stern warning to leave his flight suit around his waist and to move around as little as possible.

The opium had done more than relieve the pain; it had made John relaxed, sleepy and less concerned about his fate. Moving cautiously with Ahmad's assistance, he used the bunk as a lounge and, cushioned by the folded blankets and the pillow, half reclined and dozed on and off. John never really noticed Ahmad gathering his supplies and retreating. He resigned himself to waiting for whatever came next, reassured a little that his captors wouldn't have bothered giving him medical aid if their intention was to do him further harm. He began to hope that he was going to come out of this better than he had anticipated.


	12. Chapter 12

"War is deception."  
\- Sun Tzu  
\- 554 BC - 496 BC

 

John's guards hadn't taken his watch but since he'd been in the continuous twilight of the cave, he had no real concept of how long he'd been held here or even how long ago he'd crashed. There wasn't enough ambient light to keep the watch current and he couldn't remember if he'd bothered to wind the damm thing either. He knew he'd been fed five times, his water skin had been replenished at least six times and the unfortunate guard who must have been low man on the totem pool had changed out the bucket in the corner three times. So, maybe three days? Maybe more? 

Ahmad had been back four times and checked his injuries, a process that would have been extremely painful if he hadn't been persuaded to take a small amount of opium each time to make it bearable. He knew he should have refused the drugs, but uncertain of when (he stamped down firmly on the "if") he'd get back to his base, he justified it by hoping he'd recover enough to escape on his own, barring outside rescue or intervention.

Not long after Ahmad had left the fourth time, nodding reassuringly and seeming to be pleased about something that John couldn't determine using both his and Ahmad's limited language skills, he heard excited voices in one of the outer rooms. John wasn't sure if this heralded a good development or a bad one. Could be just the arrival of a changing of the guards, reinforcements, replenishing of supplies, or maybe someone who was higher up in the food chain.

A few minutes later Ahmad preceded the new arrival into John's cell, speaking rapidly to the older man in a respectful tone as if to reassure him that all was well.

By the deference with which he was escorted, John had no doubt that this was the man he'd been repeatedly told to wait for as if simply by his presence, everything would be made right. John squinted to make out the cloaked figure's features and would have been knocked on his ass if he hadn't already been seated. Samir advanced into the cell as if sure of a warm welcome but then hesitated when he saw the shock and rage on John's face. 

"You son of a bitch! You fucking bastard!"

Ahmad may not have understand the exact words, but there was no mistaking the tone. He moved towards John in a threatening manner, but was restrained by Samir's soft words. After another brief exchange, Ahmad reluctantly withdrew leaving John and Samir alone.

Samir indicated that he would like to be seated on the bed. John curtly gave his permission. He wanted him close. Because if he didn't like Samir's explanation of the last few days, John planned on using his training to quietly dispose of the man and to hell with the consequences.


	13. Chapter 13

"In war, truth is the first casualty."  
\- Aeschylus  
\- 524 BC - 456 BC 

John simply glared at Samir for a very long time. Samir, to his credit, sat quietly and allowed John to get his point across, albeit silently. Samir could see that John was hurting physically and he knew that he had to be hurting emotionally after losing the soldiers that had been killed during the firefight and then the soldier that he'd tried to save.

"Explain."

Samir told John a succinct version of the events of the last week. His daughter-in-law and his grandson, a boy of eight, were being held on suspicion of aiding the Taliban. Samir had attempted to free them, vouching for their innocence, but nothing had worked until his ragged little band of anti-Taliban hellions had heard the firefight that had taken down first Holland's and then John's chopper. When they managed to work their way to the scene, the men responsible had been there combing through the wreckage and, finding nothing they could scavenge and no survivors, they simply headed back into the shelter of the mountains. Unbelievably, the soldiers had missed John's trail. But the boys who were completely at home in this desolate area hadn't.

As they left to follow the trail, scouring it with branches as they went to hide the Americans' and their own trail from any other Talibans or another inquisitive group, they heard the sound of more helicopters. Hiding in the brush, they watched as the American bodies were recovered. The American forces were much more thorough in their search for any survivors, presumably because they knew how many men had been on the helicopters and realized they were coming up two short. After a brief conversation between who the boys assumed was the highest ranking soldier there and someone over a radio, they left. The helicopters circled the area but concentrated on the mountainous slopes, and not the thick brush the boys were huddled under. Even if they had flown over their area, they were well camouflaged by their neutral colored dusty clothing. They assumed that if they'd come forward they would have been accused of either being Taliban themselves or their supporters.

Not knowing what else to do they followed the trail that John and Holland had left and found them just at sunset. They stopped just out of sight and waited until dawn unaware whether or not both men were capable of shooting at them, how well armed the men were or if they would understand that they were not Taliban and had come to help. John, of course, knew the rest of the story and he picked it up from there. 

Samir took up the narrative again and explained how the boys sent for him and Ahmad after John was safely brought to the cave system, but only Ahmad could come while Samir was speaking with the Americans about his family. But, Samir explained, Ahmad brought a "borrowed" vehicle from a British camp to retrieve Holland's body and return it to the Americans. This helped Samir in his negotiations and when Ahmad revealed that another American was seriously hurt but alive, an exchange was worked out. John was going to be returned to his base and Samir's family was to be released to their people.

John was not completely satisfied with the story. Oh, he didn't doubt that what Samir told him was true, but he didn't believe for a minute that there wasn't more he wasn't telling. John's anger had dulled a bit but the level of his pain had, if anything, gotten worse as he'd been sitting tensed, ready to move on Samir either to take him hostage or break his neck if he had to. Now, he slumped a little in relief but forced out a gasp as his ribs and shoulder grated painfully.

Samir rose and clapped his hands loudly. Ahmad and two of the other boys appeared instantly and a long but barely audible conversation ensued between the three of them. The key to the padlock on John's ankle was produced from inside one of the boys' robes and he was promptly released from the ring and chain. Turning to John again, Samir explained that the precaution had been necessary for John's safety as well as for theirs. When the boys realized they had an American warrior who was also a pilot, they had been a little in awe of John and had unfortunately shown it by their initial treatment of him. Then seeing how badly hurt he was, they didn't want to give him a chance to wander off into the foothills and be spotted by a Taliban patrol.

Much to John's disappointment, Samir told him it was much too close to dark for them to take him back to the rendezvous point Samir and the Americans had agreed on. They'd have to leave in the morning. John was disappointed but now that the fucking chain was gone, he felt a little better about the whole thing. His spirits rose even further when after he'd eaten and Ahmad had once again checked his injuries and given him his "medication", one of the other boys brought him his gun, knives and everything else he'd had on him at the time they'd caught up with him in the desert. With nothing left to do but wait until morning, he arranged himself on the bed with his gun under the blankets within easy reach and let the small amount of opium he'd agreed on lull him to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

"Boldness during war that is governed by superior intellect is the mark of a hero."  
\- Carl von Clausewitz  
\- 1780 - 1931

John began to surface from the depths of a deep sleep that had been pleasantly absent of nightmares. As he gradually became aware of his surroundings, he realized that he wasn't alone in the cave that had been both his prison and his refuge for the last few days. He continued to lay perfectly still, keeping his breathing even, until he heard the scuff of a sandal on the stone floor. At the same time, John felt a slight change in the airflow near the head of the bunk. Throwing back the blankets, he came up into firing position, his 9 mil centered on one of the boys who had been first his guard and then his caretaker. The young man gasped in alarm, nearly dropping the plate and water skin he'd obviously been bringing to John.

Embarrassed, John brought the gun down and laid it on the blankets, shrugging an apology to the boy who recovered quickly enough to hand John the food and water without dropping it, before escaping from the small chamber. The menu hadn't changed: dried meat, naan and warm, goat flavored water. John never thought he'd actually look forward to mess hall food or even an MRE.

Hoping that as soon as the morning meal was consumed he and Samir would be on their way, he ate quickly and drank all the water he could manage. He assumed that the rendezvous Samir had arranged would be a long drive in the "borrowed" vehicle. John stood up and began to move around as much as he could to work out the stiffness from the forced inactivity. His headache had subsided over the last few days but, in contrast, his shoulder and ribs seemed worse. John had started to worry that the chopper crash had done more damage than he'd thought and he said a fervent prayer that he hadn't managed to do anything permanent. He knew that he was in serious trouble and was facing an Article 15 hearing at the very least. If his shoulder was damaged beyond what a few weeks of intense physical therapy could resolve . . . well, he didn't know what he'd do. What if he couldn't fly? Oh, God, what if he was grounded . . . John abruptly stopped and mentally put the brakes down hard on that thought. "Get back to base first, John, then start worrying about everything else."

Just as he was beginning to spiral into depression, Samir and Ahmad entered his "cell" to see if he felt up to the long and dangerous ride ahead. John, naturally, lied about how much he was hurting but Ahmad asked if he could pull his flightsuit up without help. He couldn't. Ahmad, wearing the same expression as every doctor he'd ever dealt with, sighed and helped him get dressed. John hadn't noticed that Ahmad was carrying his small basket but he laid it on the bunk and motioned for John to sit down. Ahmad then changed the bandage on his head and was able to replace the bulky one with a smaller pad taped in place. Then he withdrew another poppy head and began to make the cuts with the curved knife.

At first, John strongly opposed a dose of the opium until Samir explained that the route they would have to take was not a road, just a roughly cleared area still strewn with rocks and the deep ruts of dried out streambeds. It would not be a pleasant trip and John would need to be as prepared as possible for the bruising journey. Samir estimated that the rendevous was perhaps half a day away providing the others showed up. And, Samir added, if anyone else noticed the jeep and stopped them, he'd have to hide John in the back somehow, probably under blankets and supplies. If he was discovered, they would take John and probably kill Samir and Ahmad. John relented immediately and even accepted a much larger dose than he had before, hoping that if he did have to hide he'd be close to unconsciousness lessening the chance of discovery.

After waiting a short while for John's "medicine" to kick in, he was led outside the cave system to find that what he'd assumed would be an American vehicle was, in fact, a Land Rover. It was equipped with the WMIK system the Brits favored and was generally used as a light and relatively fast way to get around where heavy trucks couldn't make it over the terrain. It seemed that Samir and his crew were indeed opportunists when it came to acquiring equipment.

Ahmad seemed comfortable with his position as driver and Samir occupied the other seat in the front. The others helped John into the rear with several boxes stacked to one side and some blankets in case they ran into a situation where his presence would have to remain undetected. He made himself as comfortable as possible, using some of the blankets and even a cushion or two to protect his bruised body from what was going to be an extremely rough ride.

Samir spoke with the men who would be remaining behind, no doubt giving instructions as to what to do if they didn't return as planned. Water skins were handed into the back with John and some wrapped parcels that he assumed were food. With one last wave to the others, the Land Rover roared to life and they began what John hoped was an uneventful journey that would eventually get him back to his base and Samir's family back to where they belonged. In spite of the rough rocking of the vehicle, John was asleep before they made it to the bottom of the first hill.

**Author's Note:**

> A warlord is a person with power who has both military and civil control over a subnational area due to armed forces loyal to the warlord and not to a central authority. The term can also mean one who espouses the ideal that war is necessary, and has the means and authority to engage in war. Today, the word has a strong connotation that the person exercises far more power than his official title or rank legitimately permits. Under feudalism, by contrast, the local military leader may enjoy great autonomy and a personal army, and still derive legitimacy from formal fealty to a central authority.A military commander exercising civil power in a region, whether in nominal allegiance to the national government or in defiance of it.


End file.
